A Strange Story, by Edward Bulwer-Lytton

Chapter 82.

“So,” said Margrave, turning to me, “under the soil that spreads around us lies the gold which to
you and to me is at this moment of no value, except as a guide to its twin-born — the regenerator of life!”

“You have not yet described to me the nature of the substance which we are to explore, nor of the process by which
the virtues you impute to it are to be extracted.”

“Let us first find the gold, and instead of describing the life-amber, so let me call it, I will point it out to
your own eyes. As to the process, your share in it is so simple, that you will ask me why I seek aid from a chemist.
The life-amber, when found, has but to be subjected to heat and fermentation for six hours; it will be placed, in a
small caldron which that coffer contains, over the fire which that fuel will feed. To give effect to the process,
certain alkalies and other ingredients are required; but these are prepared, and mine is the task to commingle them.
From your science as chemist I need and ask nought. In you I have sought only the aid of a man.”

“If that be so, why, indeed, seek me at all? Why not confide in those swarthy attendants, who doubtless are slaves
to your orders?”

“Confide in slaves! when the first task enjoined to them would be to discover, and refrain from purloining gold!
Seven such unscrupulous knaves, or even one such, and I, thus defenceless and feeble! Such is not the work that wise
masters confide to fierce slaves. But that is the least of the reasons which exclude them from my choice, and fix my
choice of assistant on you. Do you forget what I told you of the danger which the Dervish declared no bribe I could
offer could tempt him a second time to brave?”

“I remember now; those words had passed away from my mind.”

“And because they had passed away from your mind, I chose you for my comrade. I need a man by whom danger is
scorned.”

“But in the process of which you tell me I see no possible danger unless the ingredients you mix in your caldron
have poisonous fumes.”

“It is not that. The ingredients I use are not poisons.”

“What other danger, except you dread your own Eastern slaves? But, if so, why lead them to these solitudes; and, if
so, why not bid me be armed?”

“The Eastern slaves, fulfilling my commands, wait for my summons where their eyes cannot see what we do. The danger
is of a kind in which the boldest son of the East would be more craven, perhaps, than the daintiest Sybarite of Europe,
who would shrink from a panther and laugh at a ghost. In the creed of the Dervish, and of all who adventure into that
realm of nature which is closed to philosophy and open to magic, there are races in the magnitude of space unseen as
animalcules in the world of a drop. For the tribes of the drop, science has its microscope. Of the host of yon azure
Infinite magic gains sight, and through them gains command over fluid conductors that link all the parts of creation.
Of these races, some are wholly indifferent to man, some benign to him, and some dreadly hostile. In all the regular
and prescribed conditions of mortal being, this magic realm seems as blank and tenantless as yon vacant air. But when a
seeker of powers beyond the rude functions by which man plies the clockwork that measures his hours, and stops when its
chain reaches the end of its coil, strives to pass over those boundaries at which philosophy says, ‘Knowledge ends,’—
then he is like all other travellers in regions unknown; he must propitiate or brave the tribes that are hostile — must
depend for his life on the tribes that are friendly. Though your science discredits the alchemist’s dogmas, your
learning informs you that all alchemists were not ignorant impostors; yet those whose discoveries prove them to have
been the nearest allies to your practical knowledge, ever hint in their mystical works at the reality of that realm
which is open to magic — ever hint that some means less familiar than furnace and bellows are essential to him who
explores the elixir of life. He who once quaffs that elixir, obtains in his very veins the bright fluid by which he
transmits the force of his will to agencies dormant in nature, to giants unseen in the space. And here, as he passes
the boundary which divides his allotted and normal mortality from the regions and races that magic alone can explore,
so, here, he breaks down the safeguard between himself and the tribes that are hostile. Is it not ever thus between man
and man? Let a race the most gentle and timid and civilized dwell on one side a river or mountain, and another have
home in the region beyond, each, if it pass not the intervening barrier, may with each live in peace. But if ambitious
adventurers scale the mountain, or cross the river, with design to subdue and enslave the population they boldly
invade, then all the invaded arise in wrath and defiance — the neighbours are changed into foes. And therefore this
process — by which a simple though rare material of nature is made to yield to a mortal the boon of a life which
brings, with its glorious resistance to Time, desires and faculties to subject to its service beings that dwell in the
earth and the air and the deep — has ever been one of the same peril which an invader must brave when he crosses the
bounds of his nation. By this key alone you unlock all the cells of the alchemist’s lore; by this alone understand how
a labour, which a chemist’s crudest apprentice could perform, has baffled the giant fathers of all your dwarfed
children of science. Nature, that stores this priceless boon, seems to shrink from conceding it to man; the invisible
tribes that abhor him, oppose themselves to the gain that might give them a master. The duller of those who were the
life-seekers of old would have told you how some chance, trivial, unlooked-for, foiled their grand hope at the very
point of fruition — some doltish mistake, some improvident oversight, a defect in the sulphur, a wild overflow in the
quicksilver, or a flaw in the bellows, or a pupil who failed to replenish the fuel, by falling asleep by the furnace.
The invisible foes seldom vouchsafe to make themselves visible where they can frustrate the bungler, as they mock at
his toils from their ambush. But the mightier adventurers, equally foiled in despite of their patience and skill, would
have said, ‘Not with us rests the fault; we neglected no caution, we failed from no oversight. But out from the caldron
dread faces arose, and the spectres or demons dismayed and baffled us.’ Such, then, is the danger which seems so
appalling to a son of the East, as it seemed to a sees in the dark age of Europe. But we can deride all its threats,
you and I. For myself, I own frankly I take all the safety that the charms and resources of magic bestow. You, for your
safety, have the cultured and disciplined reason which reduces all fantasies to nervous impressions; and I rely on the
courage of one who has questioned, unquailing, the Luminous Shadow, and wrested from the hand of the magician himself
the wand which concentred the wonders of will!”

To this strange and long discourse I listened without interruption, and now quietly answered —

“I do not merit the trust you affect in my courage; but I am now on my guard against the cheats of the fancy, and
the fumes of a vapour can scarcely bewilder the brain in the open air of this mountain-land. I believe in no races like
those which you tell me lie viewless in space, as do gases. I believe not in magic; I ask not its aids, and I dread not
its terrors. For the rest, I am confident of one mournful courage — the courage that comes from despair. I submit to
your guidance, whatever it be, as a sufferer whom colleges doom to the grave submits to the quack who says, ‘Take my
specific and live!’ My life is nought in itself; my life lives in another. You and I are both brave from despair; you
would turn death from yourself, I would turn death from one I love more than myself. Both know how little aid we can
win from the colleges, and both, therefore, turn to the promises most audaciously cheering. Dervish or magician,
alchemist or phantom, what care you and I? And if they fail us, what then? They cannot fail us more than the colleges
do!”